


Fragile Bird

by AddisonAddek



Category: Grey’s Anatomy
Genre: Betrayal, Cheathing, Confrontations, Divorce, F/M, Gen, Marital Issues, Marriage, Mid-life Crisis, Nightmares, Past Infidelity, Suicide, talking it out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2020-08-13 13:08:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20174779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AddisonAddek/pseuds/AddisonAddek
Summary: It very well could have been a dream or his imagination running wild, but if something happens to Addison, he'd never be able to forgive himself.An Addek Short Story. Set in Angsty Addek Season 3. Post-Addek divorce.Same universe as my MAddison story - Not This Week. But you don’t have to read that to read this.Addison/Derek#Addek





	1. Turquoise Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning. Very brief, non-graphic mentions of suicide. Warning.

**Chapter 1 - Turquoise Dream **  
_Fragile Bird_

_. . .Seeing no hope of breath, they swim into their death. . ._

-:-

Sometimes the meaning of life doesn't necessarily need to have a meaning at all. Sometimes it is as simple as giving life _life_, itself and other times ... well, other times it's like a dark, mutilated shadow.

The question of what life means follows you everywhere, _literally_, even if you never actually turn around to see it tailing you.

Everyone just wants to feel like their lives count for something. Everyone wants to be assured that _all this _is not just a cosmic accident.

The good news is that finding a sense of purpose is possible at any age. But some would argue that it is a waste of time, to find meaning in life, that is, since the universe is a cruel, uncaring void, because the key to being happy isn't a search for purpose, but to just keep busy with unimportant nonsense and eventually, you'll be dead.

He doesn't know if -

The shrill ringing of his phone on the nightstand breaks him from his sleep, has him groaning as he shifts beneath the blankets. He squeezes his eyes shut and folds the pillow over his ears to drown it out, hoping it'll silence itself without forcing him to actually get up and move and do it himself.

But it doesn't - _of_ _course_ \- and he remembers then that he's a doctor; it could be an emergency at the hospital. So, he huffs as his eyes peel open to pitch blackness, except for the flashing light and buzzing beside him. He pushes up on his elbows, lazily grabs for the device.

He squints at the screen, but he doesn't need clear vision to read the name; he knows the picture that's shining back at him, knows it all too well.

It's Addison, and for a few very _very_ tempting seconds he considers ignoring it, letting it go to voicemail because it's - _three-thirty-nine_ and very early in the morning for him to deal with his ex-wife.

He doubts there's any real emergency right now.

_It's Addison. Every little thing is an emergency to her._

He checks his pager - _nothing_.

He really can't do this, have another conversation with her again. He can't.

_What other bombshell does she need to drop on him now? And at this hour? Why is there even more secrets and lies?_

Regardless, the tiny part of him that's been her husband for the past twelve years wins over in the end and he's also curious to know as to why she's calling and with a huge sigh he answers.

"Addison, do you know what _time_ it is?"

_Silence._

All he hears is breathing on the other line and he sits up a bit straighter, more alert.

Maybe more irritated is much accurate.

"_Addison_?"

"Give me a reason not to kill myself."

His breath catches in his throat and at the same time, his heart hammers harshly in his chest, crashing almost painfully against his ribcage for release.

No, she must be joking. She's starving for attention_ (in a very Addison fashion, he must add.)_

"I don't have _time_ for your antics, Addison. It's _really_ late - or rather, it's really early -"

"All I need is _one_ reason, Derek." she says quickly, all in one exhale, and he can tell from the shakiness of her tone that she's desperate for _an_ answer.

She might just be serious.

He hears a noise that sounds something like a gasp, and it takes him a few seconds to register that the sharp inhale of breath came from him.

"What?" he asks slowly, willing his voice to stay calm even as he rips the covers off of his body. "Have you been drinking?"

"Give me one reason not to, Derek," she repeats, and the tone of her voice sends chills down his spine.

She sounds so far away, so distant, so defeated. Her voice is soft but it wavers, every inch of it is screaming with resignation.

She wouldn't.

_She wouldn't, right?_

It's not very Montgomery to do so.

_Right?_

Right.

"Because - because you are loved, Addison, whether you know it's true or not." he says so seriously, his voice verges on hysterical as he throws on his jacket and leaves the trailer.

He's prepared to list out a billion and one more reasons if he has to. He has to convince her. He'll do anything to make her believe everything he says.

"Because you've worked so hard all your life - you're so smart and special, you have so much more to give. Because _this_, I know you won't believe me, but this will hurt Bizzy and the Captain. Because _this_ would absolutely kill Archer ..." he jumps into his car as his voice trails off and peels out without so much as looking behind him.

He leaves out that it would kill him too, because this isn't about him. It's about talking her down from whatever the hell it is that's crawled into her mind and her body.

_More silence._

"Addie."

_Breathing_.

There is breathing. She's still breathing, so he forces himself to relax his tension-filled shoulders and focus on the road.

"Addie, you there?"

He keeps talking.

"You need a reason? Okay, because _I_ \- because if you do this, it would break everyone. You're needed, Addison. _We_ all need you. _Our_ nieces and nephews -"

"They're not mine, Derek."

_Right_. He's forgotten that's what divorce does.

He shakes his head. She absolutely loves those kids. "They'll always love you, Addison. You've been in their lives since day one."

"It doesn't matter anymore. We're not ...” 

_Family._

"What? No, no," he's basically shouting into the phone now, "Believe me, Addie, they love you, they love their aunt so much - and _we_ need you. Savvy, Weiss, my sisters - _me_. Me ..." he finally admits, though he knows his behaviour and actions recently truly contradicts that very statement. "Everyone. Mark, even. You are loved."

She huffs. "No, I'm not." There's a pause. "I'm sorry. I'm so stupid. I shouldn't have -" He hears rustling on her end, a crash, then a curse, and his heart speeds up.

"Addie!"

"I'm so sorry, Derek. For everything. Really."

_Shit!_

"Addison," he yells again into the receiver, but there's no answer. He pulls the phone away from his ear to realise she'd hung up, and his fingers frantically dial her number again. "Come on."

She doesn't answer and he slams his hand onto the steering wheel, pushes his foot harder on the gas.

He can barely hear himself think over the thrashing of his heart and he tries to stay calm, rationalise this and make himself believe that she won't actually do this. It should be some sort of sick prank. She couldn't possibly be thinking about killing herself.

But she is, apparently, and that's why she's called him in the middle of the night, asking for a reason as to why she ought to still be living.

Tears rush to the surface but he pushes them back, keeps them at bay because he can't do this right now. He can't break down behind the wheel because if he does he'll just make it worse, and that's not what anyone needs.

He should call Mark, so he could check up on Addison. He's staying at the _Archfield_ too, if he's not mistaken. But - _goddamnit_\- he doesn't fucking have his number.

He's only a few minutes from her hotel now, he can't seem to shut his mind off, can't stop the panic from curling at his insides and suffocating him.

_Were there signs? There are usually signs with these kinds of situations, right?_

His mind goes wild trying to think of them, of something, anything that should've, would've alerted him that Addison wasn't herself, that she was thinking about hurting herself. But - _okay_, he does not know. He hasn't really been paying _any_ attention to her lately, especially since she told him about her and Mark and everything else that happened after he left New York.

Meredith found her crying in the supply closet the other day. But that couldn't haven been a red flag for suicide.

_Right?_

Maybe it's the divorce.

But she wouldn't.

_Would she?_

Not _his_ Addison.

She’s not yours to claim. No, not anymore.

For someone who's supposed to be so observant, so detail-oriented, he has nothing.

This is all his fault.

She asked if he had a minute last night. After his shift. He found her at his floor, waiting for him by the elevators. He was confused, irritated, knew his face said it all, but she smiled anyway.

She knew his schedule - of course, she does. She knew just what time he'd leave his office. It hasn't changed, even if he's in Seattle now.

She knew. She remembered.

She asked if they could talk, but he said no. He said he didn't have a minute to talk and just walked away, pretended he didn't see the pained look on her face at the rejection.

_What if this is what she wanted to talk to him about? What if he could've stopped this before it even started, avoided this late night phone call?_

She might have been ready to talk to him about whatever it is that she's obviously feeling, everything that's brought this to the forefront of her mind, but he was too busy with his own pitiful anger and wounded pride that he couldn't have even given her the time she asked for.

And now she's - now she's scaring him, terrifying him to a point that he's never experienced before.

He barely pays attention to the park job he's just done, just makes sure he's somewhat against the curb before he turns the car off and hops out, slamming the door in his haste to run across the street to the hotel she calls home now.

He's been here thrice. Three unfortunate events. The last time, he was ready to apologise for everything he's done, did and did not do as her husband. He even had an entire speech laid out, but then, Mark happened.

_God, this is incredibly sad._

No, _this_ is incredibly sad.

He looks at his watch. It's been twenty minutes since she's called. He doesn't have time. He doesn't wait for the elevator either, just takes long strides up the stairs to her floor, ignoring the tightness in his chest.

It's from both the exertion and the panic, he knows.

Her door comes into view and he pounds on it, shouts her name in the process.

"_Addison_!"

He's far too aware that it's the middle of the night, that her neighbours are asleep, but he can't bring himself to worry about that. Not right now. "Addison! Addie!"

Nothing.

_I'm so sorry, Derek. For everything._

Stepping back, he takes a deep breath before springing forward in full force, surging his body into the door until it opens. He does wonder if it was unlocked to begin with because it did give way maybe a little too easily, but he decides not to question it. 

His eyes takes in her room, seemingly too normal, nothing out of place. They stop at her kitchen counter; there's a clean knife resting on the surface.

It's clean. _It's clean._

_Running water!_

He hears running water and he's back in action, following the sound into the bathroom. It's a surprise that he knows this place as well as he does considering the limited amount of time he's spent here.

The door is cracked open, and his attention is drawn to the water flooding the floor. His fists pushes the door open the rest of the way until he's in, his eyes immediately falling to the overflowing tub.

"Addison!"

She's under the water, eyes closed, face slack, and he's goes cold. Dizzy. He blinks back the tears as he rushes to grab at her. _Oh, God. Oh, God. Addison. Addie._ Her clothes are still on, soaked through and freezing, and his fingers grip at the fabric, uses it as leverage to tug her above the water's surface.

"Addie!" he tries again, but she's not moving. Her eyes don't open. "Come on, please!"

He's on his knees, pants already drenched before he stands again, uses all of his strength to pull her out and lay her gently onto the floor. Her skin is pale and he realises with utter horror that her chest isn't rising. She's not breathing. His fingers press against her wrist, praying for a miracle, for any chance that there's still a shallow pulse.

”Please, _honey_.”

He keeps them there for over a minute, hoping for something, but there's nothing. 

"Addie," he whispers, his voice breaking around her name. His arms goes to wrap around her, clutching the limp body to his chest. He lets the tears come away now and they fall freely as the sobs wrack his body. "I'm so sorry, Addie."

He's too late.


	2. Fallen Kites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It very well could have been a dream or his imagination running wild, but if something happens to Addison, he'd never be able to forgive himself.
> 
> An Addek Short Story. Set in Angsty Addek Season 3. Post-Addek divorce.
> 
> Same universe as my MAddison story - Not This Week. But you don’t have to read that to read this.
> 
> Addison/Derek  
#Addek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning. Very brief, non-graphic mentions of suicide. Warning.

**Chapter 2 - Fallen Kites**

_Fragile Bird_

_. . .The reason it hurts so much to separate is because our souls are connected. . ._

-:-

Everyone wants a quick fix.

We are all tired of being afraid, tired of being sad, tired of feeling overwhelmed, tired of feeling ... _well, tired_. We want the old days back, and we don't even remember them, and we want to push into the future, paradoxically, at top speed. We don't care how we're going to accomplish that and we don't care but patience and forbearance will become the first casualties of that purpose.

And his purpose right now is Addison.

_Addison._

Right now, though - right now, he's too late.

_Addison._

He's too late.

Her eyes are closed, face slack, and he goes cold with her, stands where he has been for a moment too long as the sight of his ex-wife sends shivers down his spine.

"Addison!"

He drops to his knees in front of the tub, brings his hands up towards her to do something other than sputter like a fish out of water.

She's buried under, sinking, and he sees his horrified reflection along with hers, like those pictures that change when you turn slightly and see them from a different angle.

They overlap tonight. Sometimes _(before, when times were better)_ they're as one.

He blinks, hoping the visage would change to anything that's delightful and pleasant; it doesn't.

_Remiss and terrified._

"Addison. I got you. Addie -"

He blinks and he's reeled back to reality as he takes those shoulders of hers, all the while whispering her a secret, that doesn't read as one, but she slips right from his grasp anyway, like that's supposed to mean something.

"Addison -"

_Addison. Addison. No. No. No._

That just has to mean something.

_Shit._

He grabs at her again. This time clawing at the oversized sweatshirt that looks like the one he owes and a memory of it plays a cruel reel in his mind _(they were so young, wild and free and everything was so baggy and oversized back in the day)_. Her clothes are deadweight and soaked, weighing her down to the bottom and him too as he tries to tug her above the water's surface, using all of his strength to drape her limp body over his before collapsing together to the tiled floor in a big huff.

"I got you. I got you. Addison -"

She's fucking freezing, he realises. But the water is still warm to the touch, which means if he had just driven quicker, if he would just have gotten here mere minutes, even seconds earlier - _god_, it's all his fault.

He could've stopped this from happening.

He could have stopped this.

_He could have ..._

"Come on, Addie. Wake up."

Once he gets her lying on her back, which is more difficult than he'd ever thought it'd be, he kneels beside her and lowers himself so his head is level with her chest, ear placed above her breasts to watch for the rise and fall of her chest.

Panic consumes him when there is none; no staccato of her breath, no shuddering of lungs filled with water, nothing.

"Addie!" he tries again, but she's not moving. Her eyes don't open. "Come on, please!"

It's when he moves to start CPR that he notices not only is her face slack, but there's a gash on her forehead, a small trickle of blood mingling with the water around her.

_What happened?_

It is possible that she had slipped and hit her head against the marble tub and that's how she was knocked out before falling into the water. However, she wouldn't have fallen into the bathtub, according to the law of inertia, and definitely not backwards like she did.

It's not possible. _No_. That's not possible because if she had slipped into the tub, she would have fallen face first and that's just not the case here.

But it is possible that she was _pushed_. Or that someone ... that someone was _here_ and that someone had ... _no_, he looks at her arms and hands for defensive wounds, for any signs of bruising or one that is forming; there aren't any.

The mere image of Addison being jostled and tossed around by some ... stranger, like she's some kind of rag doll, just makes him nauseous.

He's never had to perform CPR on someone he loved _(loves) _before but he's still a doctor and he still knows the logistics of it, still knows exactly what to do and how to effectively revive someone.

_Thirty compressions, two breaths._

At least, right now, he thinks he's still Dr. Shepherd. It's all that defines him. But then again, his hands are shaking so violently and Dr. Shepherd's wouldn't.

_So why isn't Addison breathing?_

He doesn't understand why CPR is not working. He knows for a fact that he's doing everything correctly.

"Addie," he breathes, her name a broken whisper before he finds his voice again. "Come on! You need to - you need to breathe."

He doesn't move from his spot, doesn't relent in his efforts to force air back into Addison's lungs.

_Thirty compressions, two breaths._

"Breathe, Addie."

Everything else disappears around him, then, and so violently and completely so, that he doesn't notice the footsteps etching closer towards them, doesn't notice the creaking of the bathroom door, nor does he notice the sharp intake of breath. _Gasp_. His focus remains solely on the motions of his hands, on the aggressive compressions to her chest as if the sheer force of his willpower alone will somehow allow her to breathe.

"Come on. Come on," he begs, breathless with every other compression.

"_Derek_ ..."

Someone says his name and he vaguely registers the voice over the commotions over and in his head; everything is so faint, fuzzy and distant.

"Derek."

He knows that voice. He hates that voices, but that voice doesn't make his blood boil tonight, doesn't make him further nauseous, doesn't conjure up any more unwanted pain and memories, doesn't bring him anything more but a plea for help.

"Mark - She isn't - I can't - You need to help her."

This isn't what he does - throw out ego and pride out of the window and beg Mark for help. _No._ But it's all become too much to handle, even for him. Addison's the one who'd usually helped him through those tough and difficult times.

_Addison_.

They used to do all those cheesy married couples ... things, like cook together and exercise together, redecorate together, take up new hobbies together and they even used to read books together. They used to do a lot of things together like they're joined at the hip.

They both used to listen to each other, encourage one another, used to help the other cope with troubling emotions and stressful situations until ... well, until they didn't.

Until they stopped.

Until they didn't even try to start doing it again.

Addison's the one who walks him through it and helps him understand what he's going through, how to effectively deal with the circumstances at hand. Addison's the only one he'd needed to help him through this situation, but she's the one inadvertently causing his distress, his blinding panic.

His hands are physically pried from the fabric of her shirt as Mark goes onto his knees beside her and he's snapped out of his daze, hastily rubbing his palms over his face, hoping to snap out of what ought to be a nightmare.

Because this has to be one.

_A fucking nightmare_.

"CPR isn't working," he rushes, voice loud. "It's not working, Mark! You're a doctor and you're very adamant about pointing out the fact that you're the best, so now is the time to do something!"

He waits for the retort that Mark doesn't voice, only faintly hears his murmurs, "Red, I'm so sorry."

Mark hovers on his knees, opposite Derek on Addison's other side, and begins CPR himself.

Thirty compressions, two breaths, a number of sets one after the other.

"It's not - it's not doing anything," he comments unnecessarily.

They can all clearly see that it's not working, that no matter how hard or quickly Mark administers the actions Addison still isn't moving.

And when Mark's hands falter before stopping altogether, Derek growls. "What are you doing? Don't stop!"

Mark blanches, shakes his head. "This is it. She isn't -"

"No." he won't let him finish that sentence, "Do something else, then," he yells again, waiting almost no time before shoving Mark's hands to the side and starting on his own again.

Nobody else is doing anything, so he has to do it himself.

"Fine, I'll do it myself."

After some time there's still no sign of a change, and a hand comes to rest on his shoulder. He shakes it off, jerks violently away from the contact and resumes his ministrations.

"Derek ..." Mark voice trails off. "Derek."

"Talking is not going to help the situation," he snaps. "Talking will not help her. Why don't you go make yourself useful and call an ambulance so we can get her some help."

"I've done that already," Mark replies. "They're on their way."

"She isn't ..."

Mark's voice trails off but Derek knows what he's trying to say and he won't accept it.

"I don't care," he spits. He takes the briefest of seconds to twist his head, to look back at his wife - _ex-wife_, then at his ex-best friend standing a few feet away with a horrified and saddened look on his face. "We don't quit! We try anyway! We can help her! We can help her. You love her, right? Then, show me you do. We can help her, Mark -" his voice cracks with the desperation in his voice.

_Vulnerability_.

At last, it registers.

Addison, herself, had said the same thing once: _we don't quit_. He'll be damned if he lets her down now. _We don't quit_. He did that night. But not anymore. Not tonight. Not when it matters.

"Derek, I'm sorry," Mark says, a hint of a break in his voice. "She was submerged for too long. There's -"

"Shut. Up," Derek cuts him off firmly, "You don't know that."

"Death from submersion often occurs in two minutes or less, depending on physicality." Mark's voice is subdued but clinical, no doubt a mechanism to keep himself together. He's never been on the receiving end of that tone. It's always him who uses that voice. _Dr. Shepherd. _"Addison is in shape, so let's be generous and say she had an extra minute or so, but Derek, that still leaves her underwater for roughly 30 seconds longer than her organs would be able to handle."

Derek shakes his head.

_In New York ..._

In New York, he remembers he had a patient that _drowned_ in a similar fashion.

"Alex was submerged for over 7 minutes and he survived with no long term side effects. I didn't give up on him and I'm not giving up on Addison now."

"But Alex had that machine that filters oxygen into his blood," Mark reminds him. "That was what kept his organs going for the extra few minutes."

His eyes squeeze shut for a moment, lips pursed in frustration. _Yes_, his patient had had the added assistance of a machine, but Addison is ... _Addison_.

"Derek ..."

"Stop it!"

"I'm sorry."

_Why does he keep apologising?_

He doesn't need Mark rattling off the facts about drowning - he knows them.

He knows that drowning is one of the most unpleasant ways to die. He knows that in submersion, the water in the lungs acts as osmotic pressure to remove large amounts of water from the blood. In an average of three minutes, 40% of the normal water volume in the blood is lost. With that kind of over-concentration of blood, heart failure is imminent. He knows that the act of struggling to breathe underwater is excruciating and if there's a lack of oxygen to the brain, the brain dies and when the brain dies, you die.

He knows, and the facts that would usually bring him great comfort are now dizzying, painful, and completely overwhelming.

"I know it's difficult to let go right now. I did what I could. Okay? Remember that, Derek. You're experiencing some very conflicting emotions right now, a lot of which you're unsure of," Mark persists, levelling his voice as best as he can for his friend. "Fear. Sadness. Debilitating despair. I just want you to know that I'm very sorry. I am so sorry I didn't mean to ..."

Now there's no mistaking the hitch in his tone.

"I'm sorry, Derek," Mark says, pain etched into the lines of his face. Derek doesn't slow but he does finally falter. "I _loved_ her."

"Stop talking about her in the past tense and - stop talking to me about emotions, like you have any and - just stop apologising."

_I loved her._

It isn't until some more colour drains from her face right before his eyes, coupled with the distinct lack of motion from her chest, that he stalls and falls back onto his haunches.

She's not breathing. She's not moving.

_Addison is ..._

Jumping from his spot, he stalks away from the body _(the reality of referring to her as the body sends him stumbling over his own feet)_, brushing off the touch and words of his ex-best friend as he watches him stock to the other end of the bathroom.

He punches the tiled wall with as much force as he can muster, knuckles bloodied after the second hit but it's not enough.

_Sadness, rage, disgust, guilt._

Emotions he's continuously expressed that he doesn't have, doesn't experience. They all come at once in an overwhelming wave and he doesn't know how to deal with them. He'd felt similar when his father died. He had shut himself away for weeks without processing that it'd even happened, but Mark eventually coaxed him into recognising them and helped him cope with how he felt.

But this is a different kind of grief. A kind he cannot handle and that's because it's her. It's Addison.

_Ex-wife_.

Addison.

He leans over the sink, vomiting the meagre contents of his stomach.

This is all his fault. He did this to her. If he wasn't so hellbent on driving her away and back to New York, they wouldn't be here right now.

He didn't know he could still feel so much and more for his ex-wife. He didn't know until it was too late. They're divorced but he still cares about her, still loves her - _how do you unlove someone whom you've loved for the past sixteen years?_

You don't.

_He doesn't._

They used to love and fight all the time. Argue but never went to bed angry.

_"So let me ask you, was it worth being right?"_ He had stubbornly said yes to her question, and he'd meant it in that moment.

But it's not worth it. _Fighting_. Nothing is worth this.

If he had been an attentive husband, Addison wouldn't need to find comfort in the arms of his best friend.

If he had really and wholeheartedly taken her back, Addison wouldn't have found Meredith's panties in his pocket because he wouldn't have done what he did.

They'd still be married and she'll be with him in the trailer, warm, safe and asleep. Not ... not as she is now and definitely not this kind of _"asleep"_.

_What happened in here?_

She was drinking. He had seen the almost empty bottle of gin outside on the island countertop.

It is possible that she slipped and fell because she was drunk. Anything can happen when you're drunk, even the impossible.

It was an accident.

But she wouldn't have drank so much if it wasn't for him. Because of his own preventable actions, he has to - _oh, god_, he has to tell her family and friends that she's dead and that future conversation embeds itself into his mind and he feels the need to throw up again.

Because of him, Addison didn't make it.

He'd told her, back when they first met, that he wouldn't let anything happen to her. He's said those lies a billion and one times that for the longest time, he believed that he had done just that.

He'd told her he wouldn't let anything happen to her, promised her with his word and yet he was the who did.

_Hurt her._

And he's not just anything and anyone.

He was her husband.

_"I never thought that we wouldn't make it." _That was what she had said to him after they left the lawyers office, after they were officially no longer married.

_Divorced._

He closes himself off, eyes vacant and stomach in knots because she was right. 

"Derek?" 

His head snaps up at the sudden intrusion of sound. He had forgotten that Mark was even in here.

"I need to tell you something," he says and by the way he avoids his eyes and how his brows contort, he knows it's something grievous, he knows it's something he's done.

He's known Mark since they were five and that's the same face he made when he secretly opened the cage of their class pet rabbit and it hopped to the busy streets and was evidently trampled.

"What did you do?"

"I’m sorry, Derek. I’m so sorry - I _pushed_ Addison."

Because of _Mark_, Addison is dead.


	3. Thoughts So Cloudy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It very well could have been a dream or his imagination running wild, but if something happens to Addison, he'd never be able to forgive himself.
> 
> An Addek Short Story. Set in Angsty Addek Season 3. Post-Addek divorce.
> 
> Same universe as my MAddison story - Not This Week. But you don’t have to read that to read this.
> 
> Addison/Derek  
#Addek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning. Very brief, non-graphic mentions of suicide. Warning.

** Chapter 3 - Thoughts So Cloudy **

_Fragile Bird_

_. . .You stopped caring, so I stopped trying. . ._

_-:-_

"Addison!"

Derek bolts awake and drenched in sweat, chest heaving profusely as his eyes darts around his surroundings.

_Addie?_

Immediately, he moves to shove the blankets from his overheated skin before dropping his head into his hands. He focuses on his breathing then, forces himself to take slow, deep breaths as he would his patients, to bring his heart rate back down to appropriate levels.

It takes him a few minutes but he eventually lifts his head and looks around, almost expecting to find himself in Addison's bathroom, on the wet tiled floor with her body in his arms.

But - _no_, he's in his trailer in the woods as the silent cricketing of insects and wind whistling would suggest. He's in his bed and it was just a dream - or a nightmare, actually. Though uncommon to him, the rudimentary causes are not a mystery. _Addison_. And the way he responded, too, isn't a surprise. Unpleasant dreams can cause a strong emotional response, typically fear, but also despair, anxiety, and great sadness.

And it is all because of his ex-wife.

The blankets rustle beneath him as he shifts, brushing against his bare legs as he pushes them off his body. It's too hot now, his skin too sticky; he can't sit under them anymore.

Straightening himself against the headboard, he pauses for a minute before he moves from the bed entirely and pads quickly into the bathroom. Gripping the side of the sink with both hands he looks at his reflection in the almost darkness just the light above the mirror is on, he is flushed and has a slight sheen of sweat on his skin, distressed; curls wiry and untamed, as if he had just been put through a chaotic, perilous situation.

In a way, he supposes he has.

Addison had killed herself. Or more accurately, Mark did.

But it wasn't real.

_Of course not._

Addison wouldn't. And Mark - he couldn't, even if he tried. He knows the guy all his life; he can't even kill a fly and he would never lay a finger on a woman.

_Never._

That, he can vouch for in his ex-best friend's credibility.

He digs the heel of his palm into his eyes.

_Just a dream. Not real._

So, Addison's fine. _She must be._ She's alive and she's fine. _She must be._ Like she always is, he tries to convince himself of that. She didn't call him in the middle of the night, she didn't ask him that scary question and he's relieved to know that Mark didn't actually kill her.

_Just a dream. Not real._

It wasn't real - it was simply a figment of his imagination pulling from the other day's case, the patient with the toxic blood that had inebriated almost every doctor at the hospital _(except for Mark, of course)_.

He breathes deeply again. Everybody is okay, Addison is alive and to the best of his knowledge, well. _So, why is he experiencing an overwhelming urge to check on her? To make sure she's really and truly breathing, that she hasn't slipped through the cracks in the middle of the night?_

"Ridiculous," he mutters to himself.

He is reluctant to accept that it is his ... duty as her husband for the past eleven years that's making him feel riddled with crippling fear and guilt.

But he needs to be certain one hundred per cent.

His phone is beside him and he picks it up, dials her number and tries to ignore the tiny voice reminding him of what time it is and that she's going to be furious he wakes her up. Especially after how, that he's been shutting her out; a call from him is probably the last thing she'd expect, anyway.

There is no answer, and he isn't exactly surprised - it really is late, after all - but this does nothing to soothe his worries. With a growl, he gets up, throws on some jeans and a sweater, and heads towards the door.

This is ridiculous. She's fine.

But maybe she's not. Maybe this nightmare is a sign telling him that he should've talked to her when she asked, that he shouldn't have been such an ass about pushing her away. It might have just been a dream, a figment of his imagination, but Addison Montgomery is very real and if something happens to her -

He'd never forgive himself.

_No, he won't let it._

* * *

The walk up to her door gives him a sinking sense of déjà vu and he feels his stomach drop, mouth going dry. But he pushes thr dread back, far _far_ back into his mind, shaking his head to will it away as he does.

_That_ was not real.

_This_ is real.

Right here and right now, this version is real.

He knocks on the door lightly at first, then with more force - _one, two, three_ \- without much hesitation, and, surprisingly, to his comfort, it only takes a few more knocks for the door to open and a very dishevelled, very exhausted-looking Addison steps into his view.

She looks sincerely displeased to see him_ (he cannot blame her though, he too would have_ _scowled at him)_ rubbering her eyes as she does.

But he is not - displeased, that is.

He's not sure he's ever been this relieved to see her.

Well, that's a lie, there was that time at the hospital after her car accident.

When he got the call, all he was able to do was beg God to not take his Addison away from him. But that was almost ten years ago. That was then and this is now. This is a close second.

And he's almost tempted to hug her.

"Derek?" she squints, surprise written all over her face even in her sleepy/irritated state and she takes all of him in. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

He nods dumbly, can't help the small smile that takes over his face or the sigh of utter relief that escapes him.

She's fine.

She really is fine, alive.

"Addison," he breathes, his hands reaching up to touch her but they fall short, left to slide limply by his sides, "I'm - I'm sorry. It's stupid, I just had to see you."

A brow arches and she crosses her arms around her chest. She looks a lot like her mother at that. Like the first time he went over to the Montgomery Mansion to meet her parents._ Stoic. Stern. Serious_. And very displeased because he was not like them, old money. But he isn't going to say something that should only be said in his head out loud. "What's going on, Derek?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing," he says, running a hand through his hair. "Nothing. It's fine."

"You're here at _three_ in the morning. Obviously _it's_ not fine."

Well, she's not wrong. But she's not completely right either.

Nothing is fine and nothing is not fine, either.

"I just needed to see you," he repeats again, doesn't know what else to say to her to explain his presence at her hotel room door without having to delve deeper into the nightmare he just had.

And he's not so sure he wants to anyway.

She leans against the door frame, an arm coming up to hug her torso. "Why?"

He sighs. "To make sure you're all right," he murmurs quietly, jutting up his chin towards the inside of her hotel room, "I'll let you get back to sleep now."

He turns to leave, but her hand touches his arm lightly - too lightly since he almost didn't feel her - and she nods behind her towards the living room, signalling tiredly for him to come in. After a second of hesitation, he does, walk over the threshold and past her until he's standing against her couch.

"Why wouldn't I be all right?"

"I, uh - I had a dream," he starts, clears his throat when his voice threatens to give out, "Just had to be sure."

She eyes him for a second before her face softens, realisation and understanding clouding her features. He's sitting on the edge of the couch cushion now and she moves to sit across from him.

"I died?" she asks, but she already knows the answer, "In this dream of yours?"

She's no stranger to these nightmares and knows there are only a few reasons one would have to be sure.

He thinks about it for a minute, deciding whether or not he's going to go into it, before giving her a small nod. "Well, at first it seemed like you had killed yourself," he clarifies softly, "Then, Mark showed up and it turns out he _killed you_?"

She stifles a laugh as her hand flies to her mouth - that's ridiculous, she finds herself thinking - muttering an apology just a moment later. "Mark, what? ... He wouldn't."

He nods. He finds himself agreeing with her, "_Mark wouldn't_."

But then again, what does he know about what Mark would and would not do?

He did _do_ his wife on their bed, on his favourite sheets. _Didn't he?_

There's a silence that envelops them and her hotel room sets an uncomfortable precedent for their almost twelve years journey here. "You hate him that much?"

_You hate him that much?_

He jerks involuntarily when her hand comes to rest on his knee, and he finally brings his eyes to hers.

Her eyes widen as she looks back at him.

_There. Her answer_.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks before making herself clear, "Your dream, I mean."

_Yes. No. Yes and no._

He lets out a heavy sigh. "You called me," he begins, twisting so he's facing in her general direction but not actually looking at her. "At three in the morning, and you told me to give you a reason not to kill yourself." she lets out a small breath she didn't know she was hiding. "I told you - I tried to tell you - I told you why you shouldn't - I tried to give you a reason, but you just told me you were sorry and hung up."

"Derek ..." she whispers shakily.

"I went to your apartment, found ..." her eyes are soft as she looks at him, "Everything looked ... the same," he adds, gesturing to the air, "But your bathroom was flooding so I went in and you were … in the tub. You had drowned yourself - Well, I thought you had drowned but Mark came out of nowhere saying how sorry he was."

She moves closer, puts a tentative arm on his shoulder. "Derek, I'm right here."

"I was too late, Addison."

This is ridiculous.

She's sitting right next to him, so close that he's touching her - or she's touching him, really - but it's suddenly so vain, so vivid in his mind again, that he can't quite let it go.

"No," she says, shaking her head, "You can't be too late for something that hasn't happened. I'm fine, okay? I'm right here." she gently caresses the back of his neck, letting him feel her, allowing him to believe that she's alive and well.

_Well enough._

His elbows rest on his knees as he lowers his head, places it into his palms. "You're not - you aren't -"

She blinks. "I maybe forty and divorced and alone and living in a hotel, but I'm not thinking of _killing_ myself, Derek."

He makes a face but gives a small, sheepish nod. "Yeah."

But she's not forty.

"No," she says firmly, confident, "It was just a dream, Derek, there is no truth to it."

He already knew that, but hearing her say it eases what tension is still left in his body.

Running his hands down his face, he lets out a relieved huff. His face rests hidden behind his palms, eyes closed as he just takes it all in once again, lets himself breathe. For a second he almost forgets where he is, forgets that he's woken his _wife _up at three in the morning just so he could make sure, indefinitely, that she's not submerged in her bathtub. He's only brought back to reality when the warm hand on his neck moves slowly down his forearm before vacating completely.

* * *

After a while, he brings his head up out of his hands but keeps his eyes closed, breathes out through his nose.

Her presence next to him is comforting but then he straightens up, as if just now remembering everything prior to this dream.

_Ex-wife. Mark. Divorce. New York. Lies. Lies. Lies._

She had lied to him.

He's been avoiding her in an attempt to forget what he had heard and somehow, through some sick twist of fate, the universe has dumped him here. On her couch, in the middle of the night, with her sitting not even a foot away.

The last time he was this close to her, close enough to breathe her perfume and her shampoo, with distance small enough that he could reach out and cup her jawbone with his hands ... well, Mark showed up.

He shudders in distaste.

When his eyes open he realises that she's watching him. There's something in her eyes that he can't pinpoint, but it's there, swirling beneath the surface, clouding over the blue of her irises.

Understanding, probably some surprise still; and, _yeah_, he is too.

He needs to get out of here before all of his _progress_ \- he almost huffs at that, because there's been next to no progress at all - is undone.

"Sorry, Addison," he says on an exhale as he goes to stand, "I'll get out of here."

"Derek, wait."

He shouldn't stop. _His head knows he shouldn't._ He shouldn't turn around to look at her. _But his heart doesn't know any better._ He shouldn't listen to that voice.

He knows he shouldn't stop, but, of course, he does. _Derek, wait. Derek, listen._ He stops and turns back towards her, who's now standing too, her eyes on him.

"What?"

She takes a step forward. "Why did you come here?" It's out before she has a second to think about it, about what she's saying and what she's starting right now, but the initial shock of him showing up has faded and now there's nothing but _confusion_.

He stopped caring a long time ago. So she stopped trying.

She's unsure whether it's the late hour, lack of sleep, or his presence in general when he's been pulling away for a while now, but it makes her brave. It makes her willing to take this jump, get some real answers while she can.

There's no turning back from this.

He blinks. "I already told you," he mutters slowly, "I had a dream -"

"That I _killed_ myself, or Mark did," she finishes for him, nodding, "I know. I mean why are you here, Derek?"

_Is it just the ridiculous hour or is she really not making any sense?_

He's not sure which one it is, but he doesn't know what she's getting at. "I don't understand the question."

Her mouth twists to the side as she shakes her head, lets out a humourless chuckle. "Why do you _care_?"

"Why do I _care_?"

She nods.

"Why do I _care_ that you - that you _killed_ yourself in my dream?"

"Yeah," she shrugs nonchalantly, wrapping her other arm around her chest. "Why'd you care enough to come to check?"

His mouth drops open and he takes a step closer. "Are you - is that a serious question? Why do I - why do I care enough to check on you?" his voice raises, the disbelief and bubbling anger growing, "After everything, after sixteen years, do you honestly believe that I wouldn't care if you died? If you'd killed yourself? ... Or if someone else did? You know that's not true."

"You stopped caring a long time ago."

That's not true. He cares. He has always cared about her.

"What does that mean?"

"The Derek I met sixteen years ago is not the Derek who's been avoiding me like the Black Plague all week," she throws back at him, but instead of stepping forward with her arms crossed in defiance, she takes a step back, hurt and turns away. "And I don't know what I did, Derek, so, obviously, no -" she turns right back around, like she's just been hit, "It took you our divorce to start _caring_ again? To _notice_ me? I really don't know why you suddenly do, or why you even came?"

He doesn't even know what to say to that.

_Is she wrong?_

No. Yes. But mostly, no.

She has it all wrong. He always cared about her and he always will. But he will admit, he's not going to deny the fact that he was a pretty lousy husband the couple of years.

_Addison._

He had spent the past few days trying and failing to get her out of his mind by distancing himself from her, by distracting himself with work and Meredith and more work than he really has. But it's just so difficult, cutting his ex-wife off and ignoring her, especially when wherever he goes it's as though she had purposefully left a trail of her perfume for him to follow suit. He even went so far as to turning a whole one-eighty degrees and walking another way, that had taken him twice the time to get to his destination, when he heard that familiar _clacking_ of her heels.

She was wearing her Manolos - they make a much heavier sound than her usual Louboutins that are much lighter and softer._ Click. Click. Click._ He really should be embarrassed; he doesn't know why he knows this utterly pointless information.

Eleven years of marriage. Sixteen years of being her partner.

He only did all the things that he did because she had lied, lied to him about what really happened after he left New York. She had lied about everything from the moment she stepped foot into Seattle Grace.

With her perfectly curled hair, dressed in all black, and red lips, she regurgitated lies after lie when she stood at the lobby. Then, on the ferry. Also, at home that evening.

_Lies. Lies. Lies._

Everything was one big conspiracy.

_If you had the baby, we'd be together in New York right now and it wouldn't be raining._

She had calculatingly, strategically left out the parts that would incriminate her. And for some reason, it still shocked him more than anything that she would lie to him.

He takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself - _Don't be mad. Don't be mad._ \- because there really is no point in getting angry with her now. What had been done has already been done and no one can change the past no matter how many times you pray on it.

"You really have no idea, do you?" his eyes match hers, but she only raises an eyebrow in challenge.

_She wants a challenge?_

Fine, she'll get one.

"You want to know why? I guess I just don't like being _lied_ _to_."

Her brows scrunch together in a line, confused. "_Lied to_?"

"_Lied to_." he echoes and before she could play clueless and say that she has no idea what the fuck he's talking about, he speaks first, "I heard you, Addison," he says on an exhausted sigh, "I heard you and Mark." Shaking his head, he turns away from her for a few seconds before looking back. It's a little uncomfortable talking about this with his wife - _no, ex-wife_. "The office behind the nurses' station."

Yeah, if the wide-eyed, panicked, deer-in-the-headlights look is any indication, he knows she knows what he's talking about now.

She drops back down to the couch as though she can't hold herself up any longer and he mirrors her.

He doesn't think he's ever heard a silence so deafening before. He's watching her, studying her - she's so uncharacteristically quiet and her eyes are glistening with unshed tears of something that's neither guilt or reproach. She eyes the red in the glass right in front of her on the coffee table, and he has no idea how it got there or when she had even poured herself one. He knows from the way she's chewing her bottom lip, a nasty habit of hers as she has a tendency to chew them raw unknowingly, she's strongly debating downing the whole thing quickly and crudely.

"You were pregnant -" he begins.

She quickly reaches for the glass and as predicted, gulps it down greedily.

_Lies. Lies. Lies._

They are still silent and he notices her fingers dancing so ever briefly over the flat of her abdomen that it almost look as if she hadn't.

She shakes her head, runs a hand over her face before it all sinks in again. "You _heard_ us."

He just nods.

"You heard ... _everything_?"

He's certain she's thinking what more can she omit from the truth right now.

"You mean when Mark said he was supposed to have a baby and not walking pneumonia or when you walked in on him and the nurse?" his gaze fixes on the faint stain on his jeans as he rubs his palms against each other. He doesn't know what to do with his hands.

The tells her that he knows, heard everything he needed to hear but doesn't, wouldn't dare mention about the other thing Mark and she talked about. It's not his place anymore. He's not her husband. Not anymore. "Yeah, I was there."

_Karma is a bitch_, he thinks only to himself, won't say that out loud, because he's ashamed that such petty thoughts would even pop into his mind.

He won't insult her.

She doesn't deserve that.

Her chest puffs out with a deep breath and her eyes flutter closed, a hand coming to pinch the bridge of her nose. "And that's why you've been ignoring me?"

"Not entirely. No."

_She was pregnant._

She was pregnant. And it wasn't his.

_Pregnancy. Offsprings. Fertility._

It's a big deal for his family, to be able to bare children, and it's something she never was _with_ him. For eleven years, five years being together before finally exchanging rings, she had never said the words _I'm pregnant _to him_. _And barely a summer with Mark - he thinks he's going to be sick just thinking about them - she gets pregnant.

Eleven years.

One month.

_Is there something wrong with him?_

There must be.

_Addison. Pregnant. Babies that are not his._

But they're divorced; he shouldn't be this troubled of the fact that she could very well have children that aren't half his.

_Divorced. Civil. Mature._

Addison. Pregnant.

He imagines her body would begin to change. The new fullness of her face would make her look exceptionally youthful again, help her round out the sunken cheeks she seems to be sporting. Her belly would grow right before his eyes, firm and curved, and her hips would flare to accommodate the ever-growing life inside of her. An ever-present flush would bloom her cheeks, too. Her nausea would improve, and she would constantly look at her profile in the mirror more than she would ever admit.

"I'm not angry," he starts, his eyes unfocused, looking somewhere past her shoulder, "I am not angry that you lied, Addison."

Not anymore.

At least, not since he woke up just this very early morning. Perhaps not since knocking on her door.

_Yesterday? And the day before that?_

Yes. Yes. Very much.

There's no point in dwelling on what he cannot change. Life is too short to be holding grudges, he finally realises.

She nods, her clenched fists resting on her lap. "I wanted to tell you, Derek - I should have - but I ... I couldn't. I ... just couldn't get myself to." She finally finds her voice ad he is amazed that he could even hear her over the pounding of his heart. "Would you have taken me back if I did, Derek?" she asks in a quiet whisper, a voice so small that he's not certain she's said the right words.

He tries to relax his tightened muscles and fiddles with his wrist because that's all he can manage right now.

_No. Yes. No. No. No?_

But he doesn't look at her, just shrugs. Now, he's looking at anywhere but her and he knows she's seen the answer she was seeking - _no_ \- and he finally peeks a glance at her and it makes him nauseous again.

_Mark._

She nods.

"I do care, Addie," he says slowly, "I want you to know that. I do care about you. I do - I have - always have ... And I'm sorry. I know it must have been ..."

He doesn't finish.

She nods again.

"Yeah - well, I guess everything worked out for the best. You deserve better. Someone who's not like me. Someone who's not a mess."

_Meredith?_

He looks at the side of her for a moment. "You both got issues."

They both have issues stemming from their narcissistic and absent parents. _Yes_. They both love hard liquor a tad too much. _Yes_. They both have serious problems with abandonment. _Yes_.

They both have the same issues essentially.

"Some more than others," she murmurs, her voice low. This could not have gone any more different than he thought it would. "I'm sorry, Derek. I just - I couldn't."

He takes a breath. "I know."

And he does, now.

He really does understand; he doesn't like the way she went about it, but he understands. They both needed to see it for themselves - a year wasted or not, they have both learned and grown.

Ultimately, he shouldn't get off scot-free either. "And I'm sorry too," he says again; he can't seem to stop apologising. _For what?_ Everything, he supposes. "I should've just talked to you instead of giving you the cold shoulder."

"I don't blame you."

"And I'm sorry about that night, too," he winces. He can't believe he's going to apologise for _that night i_n New York because, he'll say it time and time again, he's not the one at fault, not at all, but then again, there were other, more productive, ways for him to deal with that situation in the same city rather than running over a thousand miles to the West Coast.

"I could have handled things better - I shouldn't have given up so easily." he say quickly.

After the high comes the crash, as a vague sadness rises up around him, a tide of second thoughts and regrets plunders.

"I shouldn't have ran away."

She quirks a brow, not convinced.

"It made things a lot more complicated than it already was. I should've stayed in New York. We might have worked it out. You and I. We could have. The least I could've done was just ... _talk_ to you ..."

It looks so simple, so redundant saying all of this now because they are, you know, divorced, but he knows it would have been harder than it looks. He could have tried. He should have fought harder for their marriage. They would have survived like she said they would.

"_We - we never talked to each other_," he says softly, like wonder, as though he's realising it for the first time.

In New York.

He sees it now, the last couple of months before everything fell apart, he doesn't think he's even said more than three sentences to her at that brownstone. He doesn't remember much of being home either. Just that if he was home, Addison would either already be asleep or in a bad mood or nagging him about something or the other he doesn't particularly care about. Or all of the above, plus tears.

She chuckles a little - maybe in sheer disappointment that it's taken him this forever to finally notice that - her shoulders jump with the vibration and a small smile that doesn't reach her eyes forms and he thinks he's never seen her so incredibly sad before. "We really made a mess of this, didn't we?" she whispers as if a too loud noise could shatter the fragile silence around them.

_A little._

He focuses on her. Her eyes cloud with exhaustion and her pale face increasing the look of a worn-out woman. He frowns at her and couldn't help but reach over to tuck a loose strand of red hair behind her ear, cradling her face in his hands and caressing her cheeks with his thumb.

He could feel her skin warming beneath his hand and almost - _just almost_ \- for a split second, as her eyes flutters, he thought she would close the distance between them and lean into his hands like she used to.

"_Stop_," is what she say quietly instead, pulls away from him like she's been stung by a tiny kiss of pain.

Perhaps she has.

"Why?"

Her eyes shot up to meet his, and unfamiliar emotion on display all over her face. "Because I already have a reputation here, Derek," she grits, "Because _you_ have a _girlfriend_. And I don't want to be your slutty mistress." she mutters then, voice smooth and precise - irritable at his oblivion most likely.

She turns her back to him as she strides a few steps to stand beside the window, letting him stand rooted to the spot with confusion written all over his face.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

She is being particularly dramatic but - _okay_.

"This is incredibly sad." His words are stilted. Angular and staccato.

She's heard that one before, right before a practically naked Mark walk in on them. But she thinks this time feels a hell of a lot worse than the last time. Maybe because she is a lot less drunk and sated and numb from the waist down than the last time.

She looks at him from over her shoulder, her arms still folded around her chest. "Yeah," she mumbles, another sad chuckle leaving her soon after, "Yeah, it is."

"But that doesn't mean we can't fix it," he says optimistically. His voice suddenly at her back, his chest brushing her shoulder as he snags her wrist, gentle but firm, and he exposes the snowy white scar, peeking out from beneath her sleeve.

She turns to look at him, face contorting in confusion but he's not going to say it, not going to repeat the question she had asked prior. _We really made a mess of this, didn't we?_ Their eyes lock and both knew they have wasted long weeks of suffering over stupid pride and plans.

Her head lifts, voice shaking a slightly with what he thinks is hope as she speaks, "You think so?"

"I think we have a pretty good chance of ... being ... _friends_." he tries.

_Friends?_

He's not blinded by revenge and rage and betrayal anymore.

_No._

And he sees the moment she opens her mouth as if to say something, but nothing voices. _Friends?_ Then, she tries to pull her lips into another smile but that doesn't happen either. He watches her face slip into a cry, lips trembling before she hesitantly steps into him, resting her head on his chest and that's when he feels her racking body as she begins to cry. Hot and raspy, tears trekking down her face in parallel lines and into the fabric of his shirt. "I'm sorry," she repeats, and he brings his hands around to curl at her back. "I wish this was easier, I wish I could ... I wish we could ..."

_Be friends?_

"Do you know what the saddest thing is?" she asks once her sobs have somewhat subsided.

His chin comes down to lean on the top of her head. "What?" he retorts, quietly.

"To love someone who used to love you."

She turns to him slightly and he is looking down at her fondly. Blinking, she keeps her eyes away on their long lost civility. She cannot make eye contact with him.

His eyes go watery and sad. He shakes his head and breaks her grip, gently forcing her body away from his.

"I don't just want to be your friend ..."

_We were never friends,_ he can almost hear her say.

"Derek. I can't be your friend ..."

_We were dating, you were my boyfriend, then, fiancée ..._

"I'm sorry. It's just too much for me ..."

_Husband. Ex-husband. We were everything but friends ..._

He grips both her shoulders, "Listen," he insists, holding her still, "Me neither."

He was trying to gauge where she stands in all this.

She releases a sigh then as if a weight has been lifted from her shoulders and yet, she is confused.

He doesn't want to be her friend either and she tells him to stop messing with her head.

“Do not _fuck_ with me, Derek."

"I'm not."

_He's not._

"What about Meredith?"

"Oh, um, Meredith and I are no longer together."

"Since when?"

"Tuesday."

"Tuesday? How come I haven't heard about it?"

He shrugs.

“I'm surprised the whole hospital doesn't know already."

The horror of his nightmare had led him here, to open his eyes and see.

_I see. I see._

It's nice to be seen, especially by the people you love, and what she wanted was to be seen. _Desperately_. The nightmare is not gone _(not tonight or tomorrow, soon though)_ but it feels very far away, like something that might have happened to someone else.

"Come," she beckons.

"Where?"

"You can't have your wits dulled from lack of sleep, Derek. A little rest is better than none at all."

"Addi -" he starts to protest because _that's_ not what they need to happen to them right now because _sleep_ with Addison always leads to a lot more than just the act of sleeping.

"Not that, Derek," she hisses playfully, "Actual sleeping. There's no point of you driving all the way back to the trailer when it's almost four in the morning."

He supposes so.

He nods solemnly and takes her hand in his as she lead him to the direction of her bed, as obediently as a child would. He removes his jacket and climbs in beside her and they lie side by side in silence. Addison feels her pulse slow, but is still acutely aware of Derek's muscled form lying to her right.

There is only the softness of the pillow and the mattress that hugs her body like a glove. The sheets smells good - vanilla and clove and ... _Derek_ she realises. The bed is finally warm, warmed by him. He shimmers in her peripheral vision, bathed in an almost candlelit glow.

His crackling fire bright warmth beckons to her and she wraps her hands about his neck, trying to tug him closer. His chest is clothed but she still long to burrow her head against it.

She tilts her head like a debutante waiting for her first kiss. Derek smiles at her and fingers the lock of hair at her temple, the part that is now streaked with grey. They are both a bit older and sadder than the last time they did this, she thinks. He shakes his head and breaks her grip, gently forcing her hands to her side. "Not tonight, Addie. Not like this."

When she murmurs to him in protest, he cuddles her to his warm chest. Her tense muscles unwinding and she presses herself more closely to her ex-husband; her body now languid and pliant, fitting ideally against his, under his chin.

Just how he, she remembered.

She feels the smallest pinprick of rejection, but a night in Derek's arms is a fine consolation prize. After all, she thinks before falling asleep, _"not like this"_ does not mean _"not ever"._

By the time his arms wrap around her, she is already asleep. A flicker of a new reflection remains kindling within him; one grateful that his body recognises and understands the needs of his heart better than his stubborn mind.

* * *

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